


A Shassie Guide to Romance

by anonymous_yet_again



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: (just a little because they're awkward people), 5+1 Things, Awkward Conversations, Established Relationship, Fluff, Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Romantic Gestures, mostly it's a lot of fluff tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26836570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_yet_again/pseuds/anonymous_yet_again
Summary: AKA: Shawn Spencer and Carlton Lassiter's Guide to Clichéd Romantic GesturesAKA: 5 times Shawn and Lassie put their own spin on a romantic cliché, with mixed results, and one time it went perfectly.___________Chapter lengths vary widely, so updates...every day? every other day? depending on schedule, but I won't make you wait long.
Relationships: Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer
Comments: 38
Kudos: 120





	1. A Candlelit Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> In my head this is set after "You're Hot Then You're Cold" but you really don't need to read that first, just know that Shawn and Lassie got together mid to late season 6.
> 
> As the tags say, additional tags will be added with each chapter. I don't think there's anything particularly dark/requiring a warning, but if I decide something does I'll put warnings ahead of the chapters in question.

Carlton knew how a gentleman was supposed to treat a lady, in theory. In practice, he’d had a few struggles along the way, but after all, he’d been successfully married for a while, right up until the marriage had become unsuccessful instead; and though he and Marlowe had broken up, it hadn’t been anything he’d done wrong so much as the fact that she was in prison and they weren’t really able to build their relationship they way they might have otherwise.

Carlton had no idea how a gentleman was supposed to treat another gentleman. Or at least, he had some vague ideas, but it wasn’t something Hank had ever really covered when he’d discussed romance with the young Binky, and it wasn’t something Carlton had any prior experience in. On the other hand, he couldn’t have been doing anything _very_ wrong, because Shawn was still dating him and it had been almost a month since they’d first gotten together.

So far, dating consisted of take-out and TV, semi-regular sleepovers (almost always at Carlton’s, probably because Shawn was currently living out of a former froyo place) and increased groping at crime scenes. Shawn was almost always the groper, and Carlton the grope-ee, but although he grumbled, he didn’t really mind. Still, he felt like maybe something was missing. Some spark of romance. Not that either he or Shawn was unhappy--Carlton, at least, was happier than he’d been in a very long time, in a way that scared him when he thought too hard about it. And not that there weren’t plenty of sparks of a sort flying during some of those sleepovers. He just felt like maybe he wasn’t doing enough. Which was why, one Friday when Psych had already solved the murder-of-the-week and Carlton and O’Hara were mostly having a paperwork day, he called Shawn during his lunch break.

“Hey,” said Shawn, sounding happy and a little surprised. “What’s up, Lassie?”

“Nothing,” said Carlton. “Well, I mean, uh. Do you want to come over? For dinner?”

“I kind of figured I would,” said Shawn, “I just hadn’t texted yet. Are we thinking ‘za or Chinese?”

Shawn had started abbreviating the word “pizza” lately. He claimed he knew four surfers who did the same. Carlton doubted that he knew four surfers at all. “Well, actually,” he said, wondering why on earth he was nervous, “I was going to cook. Something nice--like, a date, I guess. If that’s OK?”

“Totally,” said Shawn. “Should I dress up?”

Carlton tried to remember the last time he’d seen Shawn dressed up. Was it really any different from his normal button-down and jeans combo? “Uh, up to you,” he said. “Come at seven? I’ll need time to cook.”

“Sure,” said Shawn, “I can bring wine, red or white?”

This was exactly the type of date-like conversation Carlton had been imagining, but it felt weirder than he’d imagined it would. “Red,” said Carlton.

He left work a little early for the first time in a long time, and stopped at the grocery store to get food, which took longer than it should have. If he’d planned ahead, he could have gone to the market outside Santa Barbara where he bought wild game, but it was further away and had limited hours. Instead, Carlton stood staring at the selection of meats, aware that any steak he cooked would be measured against Henry Spencer’s cooking. In the end, he bought things to make chicken parmesan. The red sauce would still pair OK with a red wine. Besides, he had pasta at home.

When he had time, Carlton enjoyed cooking and was even pretty good at it. The food was just about ready when the oven clock changed from 6:59 to 7:00. Of course, it was about five minutes after that when Shawn knocked on Carlton’s front door, but he’d expected as much, and nothing was getting cold or drying out.

“Hi,” said Shawn, when Carlton opened the door. He did seem to have made some effort to dress up; he was wearing khakis, and his shirt was a solid color, though not tucked in. Actually, it looked familiar; Carlton was almost sure Guster had been wearing the same shirt earlier in the week. “Yes,” said Shawn, holding up a bottle of wine, “before you ask, Gus’s credit card did pay for this, but it’s only fair, because I got it from his ex-wife’s family’s vineyard.”

“Guster has a...never mind,” said Carlton. He took the wine and kissed Shawn, quickly and slightly self-consciously. Shawn smelled like his pineapple body wash, and also like hair gel; now that Carlton looked, his hair did seem freshly styled. “Come in.”

Carlton lit the candles, opened the wine to let it breathe, made Shawn sit down, and plated their food. “Lassie,” said Shawn from the dining room as, in the kitchen, Carlton narrowly avoided splashing tomato sauce onto his light-colored shirt, “these candles are shaped like grenades.”

“Aren’t they great?” called Carlton happily. He brought in food, then decided that the wine had breathed enough and poured them each a glass. “Uh,” he said, once he and Shawn were seated across from each other at the ends of the table, making eye contact over their wineglasses and the two grenade-shaped candles. “Dig in?”

It felt weird, like the phone call had. They were further apart than normal, and the conversation was oddly stilted as a result. Shawn complimented Carlton’s cooking. Carlton complimented Shawn’s choice in wine. “You haven’t tried it,” he said, glancing at Shawn’s full glass.

“Oh--well, I don’t really like wine,” said Shawn. They stared at each other for a beat. “I picked based on the picture,” said Shawn. “I just know bringing wine is a thing you’re supposed to do, right?”

Carlton had thought so, too. “I think so,” he said, and drained his glass slightly too quickly, for lack of something else to do. “I’m going to get some water,” he said.

He didn’t think of getting Shawn some until he was back out from the kitchen. “Oh,” he said, standing by the table, and looking at the glass in his hand. “Do you want--”

“Lassie,” Shawn burst out. “I like you. OK? I like you a lot. And this just feels weird. We _know_ each other already. You don’t have to try to impress me, I already know you and I like you anyway. What if we just take the rest of this food and go sit on the couch, and watch this week’s _American Duos_? I know _I’d_ like that better, would that be OK with you?”

“OK,” whispered Carlton. He didn’t look at Shawn. He put the water down on the table and stared at it, instead. He should have known he would mess this up. Dating a man was different from dating a woman. Maybe there was a special gay-thing he hadn’t done, like using a rainbow tablecloth or wearing an earring. He was aware he was getting ridiculous, but he couldn’t figure out what else to do.

“Hey,” said Shawn more softly, now standing next to Carlton’s elbow. When had he gotten up? “Let’s go sit on the couch now, we’ll grab the food in a minute.”

“OK,” said Carlton again, and let Shawn take his elbow and steer him to the couch. “Sorry,” he said when they were sitting next to each other.

“What for?” said Shawn. “The food _is_ really good, I meant what I was saying earlier. And I like spending time with you. That’s all I really ask for on a Friday evening. I wouldn’t even mind spending time with you in your dining room, but you seemed uncomfortable and it was getting weird. I’d rather have you comfortable.”

Carlton leaned back on the couch and still didn’t look at Shawn, though when Shawn slid his hand down from his elbow and took hold of Carlton’s hand, he didn’t pull away. “I just thought--Shawn, I don’t know how to date a man. I’ve only ever--I’ve only ever dated women. I knew I _liked_ guys, sometimes, but I don’t have any idea how to _date_ one. I felt like I haven’t been doing enough.”

“You make me happy,” said Shawn simply. “And you let me make you happy, too. I’m not a relationship _expert_ , but I’ve been in and out of a few now and the thing is--that’s the only thing that has to be consistent. Making each other happy. The specifics are kind of up to the people in the relationship. If you _like_ candlelit dinners, we can try again! Maybe next week, though, the mood’s kind of spoiled now. But if you and I mostly like sitting on the couch watching mindless TV together, then that’s what we do. It’s up to _us_.”

“Oh,” said Carlton, mulling it over. It made a certain amount of sense. Shawn pulled his hand away, but only so he could wrap an arm around Carlton, pull him closer, and kiss his cheek, the side of his nose, and then the corner of his mouth. Carlton turned and kissed him back. This kept them occupied for a little while. Then Carlton pulled away suddenly and swore.

“It’s OK if the food’s a little cold,” started Shawn, but for once he failed to read exactly what was on Carlton’s mind.

“I forgot to blow out the candles!” said Carlton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The grenade candles are, of course, the same ones Lassie uses during his one pre-prison date with Marlowe. Also: he must be pretty good at cooking, because when Shawn walks into Jules' house to find Lassie and Marlowe eating pasta, there's stuff out to show that Lassie made the pasta from scratch. (Obviously this episode doesn't take place in this story, since I've broken both those couples up, but I thought it was neat he can cook.)
> 
> Oh, and I'm pretty sure Shawn drinks wine in several episodes, but he also has a visceral negative reaction to certain wines in a couple different episodes, so I thought I'd just expand from there.


	2. Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW (maybe?): Brief implied/referenced homophobia. This is mostly lighthearted, I promise.

They’d told Jules about their relationship pretty early on. On the one hand, neither Lassie nor Shawn really wanted to, because it was _their_ relationship, and it was new; and also, Jules and Shawn hadn’t broken up _that_ long ago and neither of them really wanted to hurt her. But Lassie had said that not telling her would make him a huge hypocrite, and Shawn had thought, guiltily, of Jules’s love of honesty, and they’d sucked it up and had the awkward conversations.

No one else at the station knew. Well, sometimes Gus was at the station, and of course, _he_ knew, because Shawn felt guilty when he kept things from Gus. Gus had been almost less surprised to find out about Shawn and Lassie than he had been about Shawn and Jules, making Shawn wonder quite how obvious he had been, and for how long. But aside from Gus and Jules, Lassie had asked if they could keep it quiet, and Shawn, who was not a quiet person, had agreed to do his best. The chief probably suspected, but she was good at keeping to herself.

Then Lassie’s birthday rolled around, and Shawn wanted to do something for it. So he ordered masses of flowers, anonymously, and lurked around the station waiting for Lassie to arrive and find them on his desk.

Lassie was, oddly, a little late, at least compared to his own standards. This wasn’t super unusual, nowadays, and no one else seemed to notice, but Shawn knew that it was _him_ , specifically him in Lassie’s bed saying, “Come on, give me a goodbye kiss,” that was the secret reason Lassie now sometimes came to work twenty minutes late and with his tie crooked. And Shawn hadn’t spent last night at Lassie’s. So something else had happened.

As soon as Lassie strode through the door carrying his jacket, with lines in his sleeves where they’d been rolled up, and a streak of grease on his right hand, Shawn knew he’d had a flat tire on the way to work. It was a relief to know he wasn’t being cheated on, even though he hadn’t worried about that very seriously. It was a shame that Lassie’s birthday had started so terribly, though. “Happy birthday, Carlton!” said Jules from her desk. She gestured at Lassie’s, and he stopped short and stared at it. “You’ve got a secret admirer!” she said.

Jules probably knew the flowers were from Shawn. Shawn, from behind his pillar, appreciated her not blabbing it around. Lassie approached the desk cautiously.

“Who are those from, then, Lassiter?” called Dobson from farther across the station. “Is there a card?”

“I don’t know,” said Lassie, his face getting red but, unfortunately, still looking grumpy.

“Wow, Detective, you don’t think you have a stalker or something, do you?” said Buzz, coming over to eye the bouquets. Shawn frowned and looked at them again. Maybe seven bouquets had been a lot. He hadn’t gotten the most expensive ones or anything, though, Gus wouldn’t have liked it. Not that he knew about this particular plan, but Shawn had been using his credit card.

“I don’t think so,” said Lassie, who had found the one bouquet with a card attached. It was a birthday card revealing certain intimate things the sender was interested in doing to the receiver, though it was vague enough to still be anonymous. Shawn watched Lassie’s face, which was growing, if possible, even redder.

Buzz hovered over Lassie’s shoulder, and got a little red, too. “Oh, my,” he said, at which point Lassie realized he was there and snapped, “Back off, McNab.” Buzz backed.

“What’s the matter, Lassiter,” called another detective, “got a secret girlfriend? Ooh, or a secret _boy_ friend?”

“Shut up,” said Lassie back, but the damage was done; although most of the officers, to their credit, were mostly smiling benevolently at the idea of a secret relationship, a couple cracked up in a way that Shawn, who had unfortunately not lived a life free of homophobic assholes, recognized as hilarity at the idea of anyone being _gay_.

“Hey,” said Jules, getting up to defend Lassie, an act that Shawn knew the man would find both gratifying and deeply embarrassing, “unless you all have _spotless_ personal lives--which I know for a fact you _don’t_ \--I don’t think there’s anything to laugh about.”

“McNab!” barked Lassie as people grumbled, “go grab a trash bag. Get these out of here.”

Shawn’s plan had been to watch people’s reactions, and then “arrive” and torment Lassie about his so-called secret admirer. Now he decided that it was maybe not a good time to do that, after all. He slipped away instead, managing to stay mostly unseen. As he left, though, he caught a glimpse of Lassie tucking the card into his inside pocket. So maybe it wasn’t _all_ bad.

Shawn was waiting at Lassie’s condo that evening when his car--driving with one spare tire--parked out front. “How’d you get in?” said Lassie, sounding unsurprised, when he unlocked his own front door.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” said Shawn, perched on the couch and hugging a cushion. “Lass--I’m sorry about the flowers.”

“It was probably too many,” said Lassie, coming the rest of the way into his place and starting to shed his “on-duty Lassie” layers. This meant things like taking off his shoes, putting away his gun, and taking off his holster. Often he took off the jacket; sometimes he loosened his tie. Off-duty Lassie wasn’t always _very_ different from on-duty Lassie, but those small differences were critical.

“Oh, yeah, maybe,” said Shawn, who’d spared some thought during the day--OK, it was really all he’d thought about--and had decided that the number of flowers _wasn’t_ the main problem. “I just mean I shouldn’t have had them sent to your work like that. Like, I could have had all of them delivered here instead. Or done nothing and baked a cake--well, I still did that.”

“I thought I smelled something,” said Lassie. He moved towards the kitchen, and said, “You baked it here?”

“How could you tell?” said Shawn wryly. He left the cushion on the couch, following Lassie to stand in the doorway and eye the kitchen. He’d cleaned up a little, but there were still messy dishes stacked in the sink and, now that Shawn looked, a few streaks of flour on the counter that he’d missed. The cake was cooling on a baking rack before Shawn would be able to ice it, and it didn’t look too bad.

“I didn’t know you could bake,” said Lassie. He looked at the measuring cups in the sink, then opened the fridge and looked at the bowl of cooling cream cheese icing waiting to be spread.

“I worked for a pastry chef for three whole days,” said Shawn. “I’m still crap at _pastry_ , but I learned a few things.”

Lassie stuck his finger in the icing and then in his mouth, and looked surprised when it tasted good. “The flowers were...embarrassing,” he said once he’d closed the fridge again.

“I’m sorry--” started Shawn again.

“But I was already in a bad mood because of my tire,” Lassie went on slowly. “And...it’s not your fault that some people are jerks.”

“Oh,” said Shawn, a little surprised. “Thanks?” Since he’d done all that thinking earlier in the day, he went on, “I’ve been thinking, and--I know you’re not interested in spreading our relationship to everyone in the station. That’s totally fine. I just...I really like dating you. And sometimes I kind of want to hold your hand or kiss you where people can see. And since I can’t, I think I kind of overcompensated by sending all those flowers today, instead.”

“I was thinking, too,” said Lassie. “I don’t think--I don’t want to make some big announcement. Or, uh, come out to everyone or anything. But I don’t mind if people know. If we’re just...more open. Until they figure it out.”

It was understated and, honestly, not a big difference from how they normally functioned, because Shawn doubted Lassie was going to actually _want_ to hold hands or kiss while he was working, anyway. But it was also a huge step. Shawn grinned from ear to ear and pushed Lassie up against the counter to kiss him, letting a little of the heat he’d felt when Lassie had sucked icing off of his own finger seep into the kiss.

“I’ve never really...understood flowers,” said Lassie when Shawn had pulled back a little without letting him up, his hands gripping the counter on either side of Lassie’s hips. “You just look at them for a little while, and then they die. Kind of depressing in the long run.”

“Hmm,” said Shawn, against the underside of Lassie’s jaw. “I was going to pipe icing flowers on your birthday cake, but I can do something else instead.”

“Icing flowers are OK,” managed Lassie before Shawn made his way up to his mouth again.

“OK,” said Shawn, pulling back some time later, “I have to ice the cake before the icing gets too stiff.”

Lassie blinked at him, his hair now thoroughly messed up and his eyes slightly glassy, and Shawn resisted the urge to make a joke about other things being stiff. “OK,” said Lassie slowly, “but I seem to recall a card saying--”

“Oh, we’ll get there,” said Shawn, letting Lassie away from the counter and slapping his ass as he moved away. “After cake. Happy birthday, Lassie.”


	3. Long Walks on the Beach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a slightly angstier one; canon-typical murder case in background

Carlton took a bite of his sandwich, which tasted disconcertingly of sawdust. He didn’t even know how he knew what sawdust tasted like. He re-wrapped the sandwich carefully, and then tossed it towards the trashcan next to his bench. It fell on the ground, which felt about right. Since littering was a crime, Carlton got up and threw it out for real, and then sat on the bench again.

He’d earned a lunch break at the beach. They’d just wrapped up a twisted case involving multiple homicides. Of course, if they’d had enough evidence yesterday, they would have been able to wrap it up _before_ it became multiple homicides. But even though Shawn had been adamant that he knew who’d done it--and even though Carlton had privately agreed with him based only on a gut feeling--they hadn’t arrested the guy, and he’d killed again last night to try to get rid of a witness. Luckily, he’d been caught on a security camera, and they’d arrested him right away, but not until the witness--a teenaged convenience store clerk, basically still a kid--was long dead.

Shawn had been angry, angry enough to say that if Carlton had just arrested the murderer the day before, the kid would still be alive. Shawn had apparently bonded with her over the course of twelve hours’ acquaintance. Carlton had been angry too, mostly at himself. So of course he’d taken it out on Shawn. “If you’re so _psychic_ ,” he’d yelled, in the middle of the station, “why didn’t you know he was going to kill her? If _anyone_ should have prevented this, it’s _you_ , Spencer!”

He hardly ever used Shawn’s last name anymore, which every single person watching--about half the station, it felt like--was aware of. Shawn’s face had gone closed off, blank, and white, and he’d turned on his heel and walked out of the station without saying anything else. Guster had spared just enough time to shoot Carlton a death glare before following his friend.

Carlton had yelled at everyone watching until they were all as miserable as him, even O’Hara, sat at his desk with his head in his hands for a while, and then said, “I’m going to lunch,” and tried to ignore everyone’s sighs of relief.

He wasn’t sorry that he’d tossed his sandwich, except that having nothing to eat meant having nothing to do. Carlton sat for a little longer, and then couldn’t bear the stillness, and got up to start pacing along the beachfront sidewalk. There were too many people there, so he moved until he was walking up and down the beach itself, far enough from the water and the sidewalk both that no one was really near him. His feet slid awkwardly in the sand, but he didn’t care. He thought about the first murder scene. Maybe he _had_ missed something. Or maybe he could have interrogated the guy differently, the first time. They’d taken him in when Shawn first suggested it, but he’d been unruffled _and_ had an apparently solid alibi, so they’d had to release him soon after. Maybe there was a different way Carlton could have pressed. He ran the whole interrogation through in his head, for probably the forty-fifth time that day.

Someone jogged up behind him, panting a little, and Carlton turned to glare at them. “Come here often?” said Shawn, slowing and falling into step with Carlton.

Carlton softened his glare a little and looked away. He didn’t want to talk to Shawn, really, but he also didn’t want him to leave. “Sorry,” he said eventually. “That I took it out. On you. It’s not your fault.”

Shawn caught Carlton’s hand and twined their fingers together, still walking with him. Carlton let him. “It’s not your fault, either,” Shawn said. “And I kinda took it out on you first.”

Carlton shrugged, still thinking. “Hey,” said Shawn, coming to a stop and tugging on Carlton’s hand until he stopped, too. “It really isn’t. _Either_ of our faults. I--can I tell you something?”

“OK,” said Carlton, turning to walk back the other direction. Shawn turned around with a little backwards hop-skip, so that he could keep holding Carlton’s hand and also walk next to him. He looked around a little, and lowered his voice slightly.

“I’m pretty sure you already know this,” he said, “but I’m not--”

“Wait,” said Carlton, pausing again. “Is this going to remove my plausible deniability?”

Shawn considered. “If those words mean what I think they mean, probably. Honestly I’ve only ever seen that written down. Do you not want me to say it?”

Carlton thought about it. Years ago, he’d sworn to himself to arrest Shawn immediately if he ever got the slightest _whiff_ of proof that he wasn’t what he claimed. Of course, he’d thought of him as “Spencer,” at the time. A lot had changed since then. “...You can say it,” he said.

“I’m not psychic,” said Shawn. Carlton started walking again, just to deal with his thoughts. Shawn walked with him, and kept talking. “What I _am_ is a very very good detective. Not like you--I have no patience for all the procedure, for one thing, even though I know it’s important--but I’m really good at spotting clues, and _remembering_ clues, and putting everything together.” Carlton took this to mean that Shawn was a better detective than him, which wasn’t a surprise. “So you have to believe me when I say that there was _no way_ to prove he was the killer,” said Shawn. “Even the poor girl he killed hadn’t seen enough to ID him; I know, I asked her yesterday. There was no way to prove anything, and no way to know he’d get paranoid and kill again. I couldn’t have done it; you couldn’t have done it. It sucks, and it’s entirely _his_ fault.”

Carlton now seemed to be walking on just as much sand inside his shoes as outside. He turned and moved towards a bench, pulling Shawn along mainly because neither of them was letting go. He did let go once he was sitting down, so he could unlace his shoes and pour sand out of them. “I know,” he said eventually. “It just--does suck. A lot.”

“Yeah,” said Shawn, “and we’re allowed to feel that. On the other hand, he is literally on camera killing that girl, and we got that evidence super officially, there’s no way they can get that thrown out in court--hey, just because I don’t follow the rules doesn’t mean I don’t know them,” he added when Carlton looked sideways at him from under his eyebrows. “So he’s not getting away with it.”

“That’s true,” said Carlton. Prison was too good for the scum-sucking bastard. For a moment, instead of replaying his interrogation from the day before, he got lost in a fantasy where the murderer resisted arrest, and Carlton got to shoot him, instead. It felt worryingly good.

“You know,” said Shawn, watching his face, “lunch dates on the beach, or whatever this was, are all very nice, but tonight, you should take me to the shooting range.”

“Can you shoot?” said Carlton. Actually, he supposed he’d seen Shawn shoot, if only back when he’d been shot and kidnapped, but he didn’t know if he was any _good_ , or if he’d just gotten lucky that time.

“Babe, I can shoot anything you tell me to,” said Shawn seductively. “For real, though, I am very good. Like, _very_ good. I just don’t get to practice much.”

It sounded like something Shawn would say no matter what. On the other hand, he’d been raised by Henry Spencer. So basically, Carlton wasn’t sure if Shawn was bullshitting or not, but he was suddenly eager to find out. “It’s a date,” he said.


	4. Making Music Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I'm still a little iffy on what exactly constitutes "crack fic/crack taken seriously" but this chapter is probably the closest I've ever gotten to writing any. Except that, honestly, I could see something with a similar (less gay) premise happening on the actual show, which was often pretty darn weird on its own.

“How in _the_ hell,” hissed Lassie, “do I end up in situations like this with you?”

Shawn was pretty sure it was a rhetorical question. He answered it anyway. “Shh, sweetcakes,” he said, ignoring Lassie’s sputter at the totally unprecedented nickname, “I told you, I saw the guy we were looking at for that diamond theft come in here just a minute ago. Hi,” he added to the guy at the door, “uh, we’re here for the speakeasy?”

The doorman gave him an ironic eyebrow raise, but Shawn had already spotted the weird old telephone and the obvious hidden door, so he grabbed Lassie’s hand and dragged him into the fake front room. It was one of those places where they _really_ liked to pretend it was still the 1920s, passwords and secrecy and all. Luckily, the password was written next to the old style payphone, so Shawn picked it up and said, “Swordfish,” and the secret door swung open.

“Why do we care if he came in here?” muttered Lassie from right behind Shawn as they went through the door and looked around. It was too early for there to be a large crowd, though there were a reasonable number of people sitting at the little tables and standing at the bar. Lassie and Shawn had actually been on their way to a dinner date, though nothing as classy as this. They’d just decided to eat out in public for once, so they’d been headed for a Red Robin. Then Shawn had spotted his prime suspect, for a case that Jules was actually lead investigator for, and told Lassie to pull over.

“Because we know he isn’t working alone,” said Shawn, looking around, “and this seems like a good place to meet up secretively with other sketchy people.”

Lassie grumbled a little, but Shawn recognized it as form grumbling--the things he said whenever he wanted to sound annoyed--and ignored it. He took Lassie’s arm and pulled him across the room, closer to the little stage area, which wasn’t raised but which had some chairs and music stands set out, along with a piano. “He went this way,” started Shawn, still scanning, and then the suspect turned away from where he’d been standing near the bar and started to walk towards them, and Shawn remembered that he’d sat in on Jules’s interrogation.

“Quick,” he hissed, and dragged Lassie further on. “Watch him,” he muttered, swinging his legs over the piano bench and making sure his back was to the room.

“What--Shawn, what are you doing?” said Lassie, too loudly, standing next to him.

“Shh,” said Shawn. “He saw me at the police station. But he doesn’t know you by sight, so you need to keep an eye on him.”

Lassie turned so that he was standing by the piano facing out, frowning slightly. “He’s at a table near us,” he muttered. “I think he’s waiting for someone.”

“We need to know who he meets,” said Shawn. “Keep watching.” To kill time, he spread his hands over the keys, and played a chord. He could _feel_ the ripple around the room as everyone who was there started paying attention to them. Oops.

“What are you _doing_?” hissed Lassie again, moving his mouth as little as possible.

“We need to wait here until our guy meets up with his contact,” said Shawn, playing another chord. “But it’ll look suspicious if we’re just chilling here, doing nothing.”

“Sure, now that you’ve started playing,” said Lassie, giving up on subtlety enough that he leaned over towards Shawn to make his annoyance clearly known. “They were all ignoring us before.”

“They wouldn’t have been for long,” said Shawn.

“Since when can you play piano, anyway?” said Lassie, as Shawn noticed a basket of sheet music by the bench and bent to rifle through it.

“Oh, most of my life,” said Shawn airily, flipping through songs. “I didn’t actually take lessons for long, but it kind of stuck with me. Hey, do you know ‘Fly me to the Moon’?” It was the only old jazz song in the bunch that he recognized. Gus would have been ashamed.

“Yes--why?” said Lassie, looking alarmed.

“Because, if I’m playing, you need to sing,” said Shawn. “Just keep one eye on his table, it’ll be fine. We’ll probably only need to do one song.”

“ _Shawn_ ,” said Lassie again, but Shawn was already setting the music in place on the music stand.

“I know you _can_ sing,” he said encouragingly. “Come on, Lassie, don’t blow this undercover operation.”

Lassie gave him a look of anger mixed with panic, but calling it an undercover operation worked, as Shawn knew it would. Also, he didn’t leave any time for arguing, instead launching straight into a series of introductory chords. Lassie cleared his throat, continued to look panicked and annoyed, and then launched into the song in his very reasonable baritone.

Shawn knew the tune to ‘Fly me to the Moon’ pretty well, and could even do the little noodling bits between phrases without much trouble. But he’d forgotten some of the words. Luckily, it turned out, Lassie really did know them all. It was kind of funny, at first, to hear his boyfriend singing, “darling, kiss me,” in front of a room full of people they didn’t know, at least one of whom was a criminal. But when Shawn glanced back, their suspect was still alone at his table; he and Lassie made quick eye contact, and then went to the second verse.

“In other words,” sang Lassie, “please be true--in other words,” Shawn glanced up and they made eye contact again, “I love you.”

This was followed by a little instrumental interlude, which Shawn played without really noticing, still watching Lassie’s face. Lassie was staring back, until he took a quick glance at the table they’d been watching, and then made a hand motion to Shawn to wrap it up.

“Gotta do the end,” muttered Shawn, smiling. Lassie sighed, and started singing the second verse again. Of course, it ended in the same way, but more dramatically.

“In other words,” Lassie sang again, “ _in_ other words, I...love…”

Shawn played the little instrumental bit without once looking at the keys. “You,” said Lassie.

Several people clapped, which was a surprise. Lassie took a very very awkward bow, while Shawn endeavoured to keep his face hidden. “He’s with someone now,” said Lassie while he was bent over.

“Let’s go out the back,” said Shawn, who’d spotted the door for performers not too far away. He took a glance back, right before they went through the door, and recognized the man their suspected thief was with as one of the jewelry store employees. “Got him,” he said, and then they were stumbling through a dark, messy room full of instruments, almost giggling, and then they were out in the alley behind the speakeasy.

“You,” said Lassie, and pushed Shawn up against the brick wall. He did this kind of thing even more often nowadays, and Shawn didn’t take it personally. Well, he did, but in a good way. “Never do that again.”

“You have a very nice voice, Lassie, you should sing more often,” said Shawn.

Lassie growled and put his head down, but unfortunately he failed to kiss Shawn and instead buried his face in Shawn’s shoulder, maybe embarrassed. He loosened his grip on Shawn’s arms, too, so Shawn took advantage of this to bring them up and wrap them around Lassie’s back. “Hey,” he said. “I love you, too.”

“That was the words to the song,” said Lassie, pulling his head up and looking panicked again.

“Yeah, but you sang it to _me_ ,” said Shawn. “So, what, are you saying you _don’t_ love me?”

Lassie continued to look panicked. Shawn waited patiently. Lassie was bad enough at expressing affection _outside_ of romantic relationships, Shawn figured it would take some effort. “I’m not...saying _that_ ,” said Lassie. “I...Shawn, I…”

Shawn took pity on him and kissed him, feeling very much like they were in some sort of gangster movie based solely on the setting of an alley outside a speakeasy. “It’s OK,” he said when they stopped kissing, “you can say it when you’re ready, Lass.”

“OK, I will,” said Lassie, with a sudden gleam in his eye. “I love you, Shawn.”

Shawn kissed him again, because what else was he supposed to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously _Psych: The Musical_ was partly just...inserting songs into normal life the way musicals do, but I have chosen to take the part where they all make up a song to keep Yang happy as something that actually happened, meaning that Shawn actually can play piano, and of course Lassie can sing. (Don't ask how Shawn knows Lassie can sing in this chapter. He probably heard him singing in the shower one day, while Lassie remained blissfully oblivious that his voice carried throughout his house.)


	5. Attending a Fancy Gala Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for the longer time between updates (if you're following along): a longer chapter!
> 
> Content warnings: Homophobic comments/insults from some OCs. They don't use any slurs exactly, but there is crude language and suggestions (well, more like outright description; you'll see.)
> 
> As always if you want to know more detail about the warnings, or think I didn't warn enough/properly, please drop a comment and let me know!

Shawn looked surprisingly put together in his tux. He looked put together in a way that made Carlton kind of want to take it all apart again, and mess up his artfully arranged hair for real. His bow tie was undone, though.

“Technically,” said Shawn, while Carlton worked on tying his own bow-tie, “if it’s a black-tie event, shouldn’t that mean _anything_ is OK to wear, as long as we’ve also got black ties on?”

“No,” said Carlton distractedly. He knew in theory how to tie a bow-tie, but it wasn’t like he got a lot of practice. He pulled the ends hopefully, and the whole thing fell apart. Again. “Damn it.”

“Here,” said Shawn, now squinting at his garishly green iPhone, which stood out particularly terribly against his outfit. “I just watched a video, let me try.”

It would have made more sense for Shawn to try on his own bow tie first, but instead he stepped up to Carlton and stood behind him, craning a little to look in the mirror over his shoulder. Carlton wanted to protest, but that last failure had been his third attempt, so he let Shawn grab his bowtie and fold it back and forth and wrap it around itself, with the end result of--the exact same mess as before. “Huh,” said Shawn.

“This is ridiculous,” said Carlton. “How hard can tying a bow tie be?”

“Don’t worry,” said Shawn, “I’ve got a secret weapon.” He picked up his phone again and walked away across Carlton’s bedroom, typing at it. Carlton assumed he was looking up another tutorial, until Shawn put it up to his ear and said, “Dad? Yeah, do you think you could make a stop before you get to City Hall? No, come to Lassie’s place. We need your help.”

If Carlton had experienced anything more humiliating in his life than having Henry Spencer, also wearing a dark suit, stand in front of Carlton in his own living room and tie Carlton’s bow tie for him, he sure couldn’t think of it at the moment. At least the only witness was Shawn, who was patently impossible to embarrass--and who had, after all, also needed Henry’s help. “...then you pull here and here,” said Henry, who’d been giving entirely ignored instructions to both of them the whole time. “There. Perfect.”

Carlton cleared his throat and said, “Thanks.” Then, as Henry turned to go and Shawn made to follow him, he thought about embarrassing things again, and said, “Shawn, wait a minute.”

Henry gave Carlton a look with entirely too much understanding in it as he went out the front door, but Carlton decided he could only deal with one Spencer at a time. Shawn looked at Carlton expectantly. “Shawn,” said Carlton. “We’re going to the DA’s retirement party. There’s going to be a lot of important local political people there.”

“Have you been hanging out with Gus? You’re taking on his skill for recap,” said Shawn. He seemed to read the plea for seriousness without Carlton having to say it out loud, though, and smiled more softly. “Yeah, Lassie, I know there’s going to be important people there.”

“I love you,” said Carlton, because that felt important to say before this next part. “You know how I...really want to be Chief someday.”

“I know,” said Shawn slowly. He opened his mouth to say something else, and Carlton guessed what it would be and cut him off quickly.

“I know being in a...homosexual relationship isn’t exactly helpful for that,” said Carlton, “and I don’t care. I’m not--ashamed of you or anything. I’m glad you’ll be there. But, uh,” he paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to say this. “Please don’t--have any visions? Or anything crazy? Or, I don’t know…”

“Don’t be embarrassing, basically,” said Shawn. He gave a grin that was probably supposed to be reassuring, though Carlton wasn’t entirely sure it was. “Don’t worry about a thing, Lassie. I’ll be the picture of pariah-ty.”

“You mean propriety,” said Carlton. “At least, I really hope you do.”

“Eh,” said Shawn. “I’ve heard it both ways.”

***

Shawn was a little surprised that he _wasn’t_ very offended that Lassie had asked him not to be embarrassing. But after all, he was self-aware enough to know he had a tendency to do things that other people, at least, would be embarrassed by; and he also knew that the idea of being Chief was important to Lassie. It was less important to Shawn. He liked Chief Vick, for one thing; and for another--he loved Lassie, he really did, but he also thought that it was probably important for him and for the whole community of Santa Barbara that Lassie had _some_ oversight that kept him from becoming the bloodthirsty, inhumane, justice-seeking machine that Shawn was a little worried he had the potential to be.

Still, because he _did_ love Lassie, Shawn resolved to be on his best behavior for the evening. And he suspected he would have an easier time of this than Lassie would, in some ways; as soon as they got into the room in City Hall where the party--more of a gala, really--was being held, people started coming over and shaking their hands and starting up small-talk type conversations, and while Shawn was great at making inane comments and schmoozing, Lassie was already looking a bit uncomfortable.

“Carlton! There you are,” said Jules from somewhere near them. She looked absolutely stunning, and Shawn was allowed to think that because they’d now been broken up for slightly longer than they’d originally been together. “The mayor was just mentioning your arrest record--in a good way! Come over and say hello.”

Lassie coughed in a way that Shawn just _knew_ was him covering up a comment about the mayor being a liberal idiot, and then let Juliet pull him towards a group of men in suits--and also the chief, who was in a dress. Shawn hung back, because with Jules had come Gus, who said, “Hey, you got the bow tie tied.”

“I had to call Henry,” Shawn admitted, scanning the room for his father and finding him chatting to one of the older ADAs near the drinks table. “What kind of food do they have here, anyway? And do you think they do doggie bags? I’d use my pockets, but this is a rental.”

The food turned out to be very good, but in ridiculously small portions, so Gus and Shawn hung near the buffet table for a little while, trying not to be too obvious about it. “So, how’s it been, coming with Jules?” said Shawn.

“She invited me as a friend, Shawn,” said Gus, with dignity. “She didn’t want me to feel left out.”

“She looks smoking hot, though, you gotta admit,” said Shawn slyly, and Gus sputtered in a familiar way and refused to answer. “Hey, man, I’m just saying, I’m over her,” said Shawn, reaching for another pastry thing with shrimp in it. “Lassie and I are in sweet man-love now.”

Gus sputtered again, for a different reason, but was drowned out by an unfortunately familiar voice saying, “Hey look, Lassiter brought his boy-toy.”

Gus managed to look both outraged and nervous at the same time. Shawn turned slowly. “Keller,” he said. “And Marks. What an...unpleasant surprise.”

He didn’t overlap with them much, but Shawn knew all of the SBPD detectives, and it looked like they knew him, too, if only by reputation. “Why’s it a surprise?” said Marks, who hadn’t made the comment, but who _had_ sniggered at it. “Our solve rate’s not too bad--the DA’s office likes us. Even _without_ you hanging around and solving everything for us, the way you do for Detective Deepthroat over there.”

Gus made a noise like he was going to start yelling soon; Shawn put a hand on his arm without looking. He was surprised to find that he didn’t feel like yelling. He felt, instead, very alert, very aloof, and very aware that he was better than both of these assholes--better as a person, but also better as a detective. “You should try it sometime,” he said. “You might learn something.”

“Having you help? No thanks,” scoffed Keller.

“No, I meant Marks’s brilliant nickname for Lassie,” said Shawn. “You might learn something about yourself.”

It took a minute for Keller to realize he was talking about “Detective Deepthroat,” and then his face twisted and made him even more ugly. “What I want to know is,” he hissed, leaning closer, “what with the stick he already has up his ass, how’d you find room to fit your dick there, too?”

Shawn felt even more remote and aware at the same time. He leaned in, too, and both detectives took a step back, which was hilarious. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You can’t catch the gay. _Or_ being psychic. That’s not how it works. Oh, but I am catching something--” he touched a finger to his eyebrow, an inconspicuous version of his normal gesture. “Marks, your wife is cheating on you,” he said. He’d seen her earlier in the evening, and had watched her body language with some of the people she’d talked to. “With another _couple_ , actually. More power to them. Keller, you’ve really got to lay off the gambling, man.” This was a combination of station gossip, Keller’s rented suit, and the tan-line where his nice watch had been before he pawned it. “I suspect your marriage is in danger as well, just from the amount of money you’ve lost. A civil-servant’s salary isn’t going to cover it, dude.”

Keller and Marks both gaped and started saying things, but Shawn wasn’t quite finished. “You drove here together, right?” he said. “I sure hope nothing happens to your BMW.” The keys were in Marks’ pocket.

The detectives didn’t seem to be done talking, but Shawn was, now, and he was also done listening. “Come on, Gus,” he said, and walked away. “Did you drive?” he asked once they were a little ways from the table.

“Yeah,” said Gus. “Do you want to go? Shouldn’t you tell Lassie?”

Shawn glanced around the room full of men in dark suits, and finally spotted his boyfriend, in a group of people including the retiring DA, and the chief. “I’ll tell him later,” he said. “I don’t want to ruin his evening yet. But wait, I do have one person I need to talk to.”

Henry handed Shawn his Swiss Army knife without question, except for asking, “Why don’t you have yours?”

“It ruins the lines of the suit, Dad,” said Shawn. “I’ll give it back tomorrow.”

Outside, he walked among the cars until he got to the BMW that he’d seen outside the police station several times in the past. “Are you sure it’s the right one?” said Gus.

“Yes,” said Shawn. Using a paper napkin he’d grabbed from the buffet to protect his hands, and to prevent any prints, he let all the air out of the tires through the simple method of cutting off the valve stems.

“Wait,” said Gus as he got to the last one. “I’m pretty sure if you only do three, insurance is less likely to replace them.”

“Gus,” said Shawn truthfully, as he put away the knife, took off the last cap, and threw it into the parking lot somewhere, “you’re the best friend I could ever ask for.”

“Thanks, Shawn,” said Gus. “I love you, too. Now let’s get out of here before they come outside.”

***

“...which is when I decided to ask for a mulligan!” said an older man who was apparently someone important, because the mayor and two other people were listening to his golf story. Carlton laughed dutifully along with the others, even though he didn’t get the joke.

“That reminds me of a shooting competition I was in,” he started when there seemed to be a conversational pause.

He was cut off by O’Hara appearing at his elbow and saying, “Carlton, can I talk to you for a minute?”

He let her pull him away. “I was about to tell them a shooting competition story,” he said.

“It’s probably a good thing I stopped you,” said O’Hara, “all of those people are _very_ pro-gun control.”

“It was a legal competition,” said Carlton, frowning a little.

“I know,” said O’Hara soothingly, “but that’s not why I came over there, anyway. Have you seen Shawn recently? I lost Gus.”

Carlton looked over to the buffet table, where he’d last noticed his boyfriend--along with O’Hara’s...well, he was her date to the event, anyway--and didn’t see them. “No,” he said. “Where could they have gone?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I thought I’d check,” said O’Hara. “My phone is in my purse at the coat check, do you have yours on you?”

“Yeah, it’s on silent,” said Carlton, and pulled his phone out. There _was_ a new text from Shawn; it said: “sorry, had 2 bounce, c u l8r, H&Ks”

He showed it to O’Hara. “This is even more incomprehensible than normal,” he said.

“Well, we know he left,” said O’Hara. “But you drove, right? So if he’s gone and Gus is gone, Gus probably took his car. Can I get a ride home, partner?”

“Sure,” said Carlton distractedly, “but why would he have left so early?” He slid his phone back into his pocket and looked up as he said this, and was confronted by one of the possible reasons.

“Looking for your boy-toy, detective?” said Keller, cementing his guilt in Carlton’s mind.

“Keller,” growled Carlton.

“What about me?” said Marks, popping up from behind him. “Not going to say hi to me?”

“You were implied,” said O’Hara coldly. “Considering how concerned you two are with men being close, you’re _never_ apart.”

“What do you know about Shawn?” said Carlton, still kind of growling. The two didn’t _used_ to make him immediately angry and on edge. Actually, he’d kind of gotten along with them for a long time, until he and Shawn had started being open with their relationship around the precinct. Things had devolved quickly from there.

“Not much,” said Keller. “Not as much as _you_ do. Just that we had a little talk with him and his Black friend over at the buffet table, and they didn’t seem too happy afterwards.”

“Gus has a name,” said O’Hara, still sounding cold and detached. Carlton wished he could manage that tone.

“You listen, you pieces of--” he started, taking a step forward. Unfortunately, O’Hara hadn’t taken him _that_ far from the mayor’s group when she first pulled him away, and now the mayor himself stepped up next to the four of them.

“Is there a problem, detectives?” he said, somehow looking polite and concerned instead of accusing.

“No,” muttered Carlton.

“Not at all, Mayor,” said Keller. “We were just having a civil discussion about whether Lassiter here likes to be on his back or on his front when he takes it up the ass from his pet psychic.”

Carlton saw red. He’d never experienced the term so literally before, but his vision actually clouded for a second as his anger overwhelmed him. Then he became aware of his surroundings again and found that O’Hara--who had been impressively quick despite her tight dress and killer heels--had her arms around his chest and was throwing basically her whole weight backwards to keep him from throttling Keller. The mayor had stepped between the two of them, and everyone else in the vicinity was watching.

Carlton wrenched himself sideways, pulling away from O’Hara but also turning away from the stupid, smug-looking pair of asshole detectives, so that she let him go. Chief Vick was right there, of course, because everything needed to get worse. Carlton heaved in a breath. He felt like he needed to either yell, cry, or hurl, and he couldn’t tell which.

“Detective Lassiter,” said Chief Vick, “why don’t you go get some fresh air.”

“I’ll go with him,” said O’Hara, stepping back into her heels and putting a hand on Carlton’s back.

“Detectives Keller and Marks,” said the chief sharply, behind them, as O’Hara guided him away. “I wouldn’t look so satisfied yet, if I were you.”

Outside, Carlton took in more gulps of cool night air, and felt a little better, though not a lot. He was aware that he had possibly just destroyed any chances he had of becoming chief of the SBPD. Trying to start a fight with other detectives in front of the mayor at a black-tie gala was...generally frowned upon. It certainly didn’t help that the fight would have been about his relationship with another man. He was surprised to find that he was more worried about Shawn, though, and what the two asswipes had said to _him_ , before he left.

O’Hara had grabbed her bag as they walked out, and she’d given him some space when they first got outside. Now she walked back over, taking her phone down from her ear. “I talked to Gus,” she said. “I told him a little of what happened. Keller and Marks said some stupid stuff to Shawn, too, that’s why they left early.”

“OK,” said Carlton. It wasn’t OK, but what else could he say? “Do you still want a ride? I’m leaving now.”

“Gus and Shawn are both at the Psych office,” said O’Hara. “Why don’t we go there? I can drive.”

In the end, Carlton drove, because driving calmed him down; and then Guster and O’Hara left the Psych office in Guster’s car a few minutes after they arrived. “Hey,” said Shawn from the couch, his tux now rumpled and his bow-tie undone. “Gus told me what Jules told him, so I know what happened, but not all the details. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” said Carlton, and sat next to Shawn. “Don’t mess up your tux,” he said. “It’s a rental.”

“It’ll be OK,” said Shawn. “I’ll get it dry-cleaned.”

“Mm,” said Carlton, already thinking of other things. “It’s stupid,” he said after a minute, “because they’re not even--they’re not even talking about something, uh, bad. It’s just--they _make_ it an insult.”

“Yeah,” said Shawn. “To be fair, bringing up details of a _straight_ couple’s sex life would still be kind of taboo at a fancy party like that, I imagine.”

“Less insulting,” muttered Carlton. He mostly wanted to hold Shawn--or for Shawn to hold him, he wasn’t picky--and to forget about everything, but they were still in their nice clothes, and Shawn hadn’t reached out yet, instead keeping his hands in his lap and looking upright and almost prim at his end of the couch, in a way that was very uncharacteristic of him.

“Yeah,” said Shawn again. “I’m sorry,” he said after a minute, “this can’t have been great for your...campaign, I guess, for Chief, and I had a vision at them--a small one, but still--that probably pissed them off more and made them look for you, to insult and provoke. And I let all the air out of Marks’ tires, but I’m not sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” said Carlton automatically. Then he thought about it, and was surprised to find it kind of was. “It’s fine, Shawn--they were always going to be assholes, whether you pissed them off or not--and I’m glad you let the air out of their tires--and, Shawn,” he went on, more slowly, “I’m not--it’s not--aargh!” Shawn turned towards him, but didn’t say anything, letting him finish, and Carlton, still speaking slowly, said, “Shawn, if the choice is between being Chief and being with you, I would choose you every time.”

Shawn looked stunned and a little teary, and Carlton kind of wanted to make a joke about him not seeing that coming, but he also wanted to kiss him, and Shawn seemed to have similar feelings about that second option. They kissed on the couch, not changing position much, just pushing closer and closer where they were sitting until Carlton wasn’t sure where his tux stopped and Shawn’s began. When they finally pulled back to breathe, Carlton didn’t feel like going very far, so they rested their foreheads together. “I love you,” said Shawn. “I love that you would get into a fight at a gala for me.”

“You let the air out of Marks’ tires for me,” said Carlton. “What did you have your ‘vision’ about, anyway?”

“Oh, Marks’ wife is cheating on him and Keller’s losing all his money to gambling,” said Shawn. “Honestly, they’re probably just jealous of us.”

“Probably,” said Carlton, and thought of Chief Vick turning towards them as he and O’Hara left the room. “The chief isn’t too happy with them--wonder if they’ll get suspended.”

“That would be great,” said Shawn enthusiastically. Carlton grinned a little and kissed him again.

“OK,” said Shawn a minute later, “I’d love to make a joke about the thing I can feel poking my leg, but I _know_ that it’s actually my dad’s Swiss Army knife, so...what if we go back to your place and change out of these tuxes?”

“Sounds good,” said Carlton, leaning back and tugging at the ends of Shawn’s untied bow tie. “...We could take them off each other.”

“That also sounds good,” said Shawn, reaching out and untying Carlton’s bow tie before smoothing the ends down over his chest. “Don’t forget, though,” he added, jumping up and offering Carlton a hand, “mine’s a rental.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like many people who like Lassiter, I was upset when he was the chief in Santa Barbara at the end of the show b/c that meant he was left behind; but also, having Lassiter as a chief, a mini-Lassiter as his head detective, and all of Lassiter's conscience/impulse control now living in another city does not bode well for Santa Barbara! So some (most) of Shawn's thoughts about Lassie-as-chief are definitely just my own.


	6. Taking a Bath

Once upon a time--a year or two ago--when Shawn’s phone rang and Jules’s name popped up on the screen, he would always be overjoyed. Now, though he was still always happy to talk to her, the timing and the caller ID actually made him a little worried. “Jules?” he said when he picked up. Gus, across the table in the restaurant, watched him with a wrinkle between his eyebrows. “What’s up? Is Lassie OK?”

“Carlton’s fine,” said Jules, and then spoiled this reassurance a little by saying, “we’re at the hospital.”

“ _What_?” said Shawn. “Where at the hospital? Give me twenty--no, give me ten minutes, and I’ll--”

“ _Shawn_ ,” said Jules insistently. “Carlton’s _fine_. He’s not the one who needed the ambulance, he’s just cold and tired. We caught up to Monroe, but he tried running from us--you know the bridge over the harbor, near where your office is? He jumped and tried to swim for it, Carlton went after him.”

“It’s like forty degrees out,” said Shawn, shivering at the thought.

“Fifty, maybe, but yes, it’s cold,” said Jules. “Carlton’s fine, though. Monroe hit his head on the way down, Carlton probably saved his life. That’s why we’re at the hospital now; but there’s a guard on his room, and we’re about to head out. I just wanted to give you a heads-up before Carlton gets home. He’s just--he’s sore, and cold, and tired, and I think he blames himself for not catching Monroe _before_ he jumped off the bridge.”

“He feels bad for a criminal?” said Shawn, legitimately a little surprised. “Aw, Lassie’s getting soft.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Jules said, though Shawn could hear a faint smile in her voice. “Anyway, we’re both done for the day. I’m going to go home and shower and eat junk food. I just wanted to let you know, first.”

“Thanks,” said Shawn. “Take it easy, Jules, you’ve earned it.”

Gus watched him hang up, and sighed. “We’re going to need boxes, aren’t we,” he said.

“Unless you want this dinner to go to waste,” said Shawn, gesturing at their mostly untouched plates.

“Absolutely not,” said Gus, “don’t even suggest such a travesty.”

“Hey,” said Shawn as Gus attempted to flag down a waiter, “get some extra breadsticks and then stop by Jules’ house. I have it on good authority she’s tired and wants to eat junk food. Also that she likes these breadsticks.”

“How good is your authority?” said Gus skeptically.

“Jules told me,” said Shawn. “Come on, man, you know you’ve been dying to make a move.”

Gus made a noise at Shawn that suggested he was being ridiculous. “Hey,” he said, when the waiter came by, “could we have a box each? Plus an extra one for the breadsticks?”

Shawn leered at him. Gus kicked him under the table.

***

Everything hurt. Carlton got out of his car and closed the door, and even that much movement made muscles in his back and shoulders ache in ways that he hadn’t known they could. Well, maybe he’d felt a little like this after the whole not-actually-haunted condo fiasco, but since he’d been recovering from being drugged at the time, he couldn’t remember very well. Hopefully this would soon be a fading memory, too.

It was tempting to sit down in the elevator, but Carlton wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stand back up easily, so he leaned on the wall and watched the floors light up. At his condo, he fumbled with the keys for a minute before managing to let himself in.

There were lights already on, and Shawn was on the couch, which Carlton had pretty much expected because he’d given Shawn a key a while ago. “Hey,” said Shawn, turning and then pausing for a minute, presumably at the sight Carlton presented. He looked down at himself and remembered that he was wearing a set of SBPD sweats, since his entire suit had been soaked and possibly ruined. They weren’t _his_ sweats, just an extra pair someone had brought from the station, so the sweatshirt was baggy and the pants were too short, revealing several inches of bare ankle above his still slightly soggy dress shoes.

“Hi,” said Carlton, and kicked off his shoes. He’d see about salvaging them in the morning. “Did O’Hara call you?”

“Yeah,” said Shawn. He got up and came over and wrapped his arms around Carlton gently, sliding his hands under the sweatshirt. As usual, he was warmer than Carlton; his hands felt hot against Carlton’s bare back. “Said you’ve been getting up to some mad heroics without me.”

“Not heroics,” mumbled Carlton, slumping enough to rest his head on Shawn’s shoulder. This was nice. If standing didn’t take quite so much effort, he would be happy to just stay there for a while. “Just mad.”

“Hey, you caught the murderer and saved his life at the same time,” said Shawn, against his temple. Carlton made a noise that neither agreed nor disagreed, and reached out in a halfhearted attempt to hug Shawn back that ended with his hands in Shawn’s back pockets. “What do you want?” said Shawn after a minute.

The question seemed a little vague. Carlton wasn’t sure how to answer. He pulled back and looked at Shawn, wrinkling his forehead. “Right now, what would make you feel better?” Shawn explained. “I wanted to do something to cheer you up, but I knew that any kind of surprise would probably be a bad idea, even though I wanted to surprise you, so...I figured I’d just ask. Do you need options? Are you hungry, or thirsty, or do you want to just lie on the couch, or…”

“I,” said Carlton, and stopped there. Shawn waited patiently. Carlton decided he couldn’t ask for what he was thinking of after all, and buried his head in Shawn’s shoulder again.

“You obviously have something in mind,” said Shawn after a minute. “What is it?”

Carlton shook his head by rolling it back and forth on Shawn’s shoulder. Shawn jostled his shoulder until Carlton had to pick his head up and look at Shawn again. “‘S’embarrassing,” said Carlton eventually.

“Carlton Lassiter,” said Shawn seriously, “after the things we’ve done in your bed--and my bed--and our couches--and your shower--and also in your kitchen that one time--you think I’ll find anything you say embarrassing?”

Carlton thought about it. “The kitchen was twice,” he said.

“You know what I mean,” said Shawn. “Also I wasn’t counting the time we started in the kitchen and moved to the bedroom.”

“Take a bath with me,” blurted Carlton.

“That’s it?” said Shawn after a moment, when Carlton didn’t add anything. Carlton shrugged and looked away. “Hey,” said Shawn, putting a hand on the side of Carlton’s face and making him look back at Shawn. “Lassie--Carlton. Of course I’ll take a bath with you. Why is that embarrassing?”

“It’s girly,” said Carlton. Shawn made a face, and he felt himself go red and also defensive. “It is! And we’re both men. And I don’t--Shawn, I just want to take a bath, not, uh--” He cut off, still red, but Shawn seemed to understand.

“No sexy times, got it,” said Shawn. “Carlton,” he added more gently, “you know I’ve already seen the bottle of bubble bath under your sink.”

“Oh,” said Carlton. That made sense. “Yeah.”

“If I was going to judge you for something,” said Shawn, “it would be your irrational hatred of squirrels, your continued denial of climate change, or your tendency to shoot first and ask questions later. It wouldn’t be for anything like enjoying baths, whether alone or with someone else. Well, at this point, if it was with someone other than _me_ , I’d be a little concerned.”

“Just you,” said Carlton. “...and alone. It’s relaxing.”

“Yeah it is,” said Shawn, “and it sounds perfect right now. Come on.”

***

Lassie had looked a little bit adorable in the ill-fitting sweats, but Shawn liked him better with nothing on; like now, as he sat on the side of the bath and watched Shawn, who’d shed his shirt but still had on his pants, test the water with his hand.

“I don’t know, what do you think?” said Shawn, shutting off the faucet. “That’s probably enough water with two of us in there.”

“Yeah,” said Lassie. He swung his legs over the edge and put his feet in the bath. Shawn watched them disappear under the foam. He’d never had a thing for feet before, but he’d been somehow aware of Lassie’s ever since he’d toed off his dress shoes at the door and revealed that he wasn’t wearing socks; Shawn had looked at them and thought, in quick succession, that they looked very cold, stupidly bony, and weirdly delicate. “It’s good,” said Lassie now, and Shawn blinked and looked away.

He took a step towards the door to pull his pants off, so that his jeans wouldn’t get dripped on, at least right away, and then turned back and found that Lassie was now entirely in the tub and had slid down, so that his head and knees were really the only things visible above the bubbles. This was also adorable. “Coming in,” Shawn said, grinning fondly and hoping he didn’t look _too_ sappy.

Shawn liked baths fine, but he tended to shower because it was faster. And somehow he’d never really taken one with another person before. Lassie pushed himself up so that his back was against the side of the tub, so Shawn stepped in the bath and lowered himself down in front of Lassie, in between those long legs of his. It was a little weird, but not bad. The water was pleasantly hot, and the bubbles smelled nice.

After a moment, Shawn decided that they really were supposed to be making more physical contact, and leaned back into Lassie’s chest. Lassie brought up his arms around Shawn willingly, but also drew in his breath sharply in a way that sounded more pained then sexy. “You OK?” said Shawn, trying to see his face.

“Yeah,” said Lassie, “I just have a lot of bruises from hitting the water--some of them pushed against the side, hang on--” He shifted a little, and hissed between his teeth. One of his knees pushed out of the water near Shawn’s side; it had a bruise forming on the outside, which Lassie seemed to be trying to keep away from the wall of the tub. Shawn put a hand on the knee and thought for a moment.

“Hang on,” he said, “Lassie, why don’t we switch? Let me get behind you.”

“Oh,” said Lassie, as if he hadn’t thought of it. Shawn stood in the bath and awkwardly worked his way behind Lassie while trying not to drip all over the floor or bump any of his boyfriend’s bruises. For another moment when he sat down, Lassie sat stiffly and upright and Shawn worried it wouldn’t work. Then he slumped back and let Shawn catch him; and Shawn wrapped his arms around Lassie’s chest and rested his chin on one of his sloped shoulders, and finally understood the appeal of bathing together.

Lassie’s whole body seemed to relax, slowly and in segments. Shawn tried to help it without being too sexy about it, running his hands down Lassie’s ribcage and using a foot to stroke down his calf. “I’ve never been the one in front,” said Lassie after a little while, his eyes half closed.

Shawn hummed tunelessly to show he was listening. He sat up a little further and held Lassie up with one arm, using the other to run a soapy, wet hand through Lassie’s hair. It wasn’t going to get it fully clean, but he could get some of the product out.

“S’nice,” mumbled Lassie. He seemed halfway asleep by now. Shawn pulled them flush together, front to back, kissed Lassie on the ear, and enjoyed the sensation of their legs floating next to each other. It was kind of scary, he realized, how much he loved Lassie. He loved him because he did brave, stupid stuff in the name of justice, and because he came home--well, to his house--afterwards and let Shawn hold him in the bath, even though he was used to being the holder. He loved him because he was an obnoxious idiot, and also because he was a good detective and a secret softy. Mostly, though, he loved him because he was Lassie.

“Shawn,” said Lassie, sounding a little more awake. He twisted away just a little, so that he could turn his head and look at Shawn, who looked back, stunned as always by just how blue his eyes were. “What if--um. Move in with me?”

Shawn didn’t answer right away, and could feel Lassie start to tense in response. He squeezed him reassuringly, still thinking. Mostly, he was surprised because he _wasn’t_ scared at the thought of moving in. Or, well, he was, but he was more scared of the thought of _not_ moving in, and what that would mean for their relationship. Besides, he was at Lassie’s place most nights, anyway. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d love to, Lass. I love you.” Lassie kissed him damply on the corner of the mouth, and Shawn squeezed him again and pressed his face to the side of Lassie’s neck. The water was cooling, but it wasn’t cold, and Shawn didn’t feel like going anywhere yet.

“Ooh,” he said, realizing, “when I move in, we can take baths together whenever we want. We can stay in the bath all weekend and turn into human prunes. Lassie, you bought this place, right? So renovations would be OK? Because if we knock a ceiling-height hole into the wall we could set up a snack zipline between here and the kitchen--I’ve built one before--and…”

He kept planning out loud, mainly because Lassie hadn’t shut him up yet. Lassie didn’t say anything, but Shawn could feel him trying not to laugh. “And a giant hamster water bottle full of wine,” he said, trying for a reaction.

“You don’t like wine,” said Lassie.

“I like _you_ ,” said Shawn. “But you’re right, pineapple smoothie would be the way to go.”

“Oh, God,” said Lassie. “I can’t remember why right now, but I love you.”

“Don’t worry,” said Shawn. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap on this one!
> 
> I'm sure most of you recognize where I got the idea for taking a bath (season 7, "Cirque du Soul"). Of course, in that episode, Carlton was the exact opposite of embarrassed to be caught in the bath with his partner; but I suspect he'd feel a little different with a guy (and, of course, with Shawn specifically, who still teases him about most things even in this universe where they're in luuurve).
> 
> Thanks as always to everyone who reads, kudos-es(?), and/or comments! You help me want to keep writing.


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